A conqueror worm

... by Edgar Allan POE

Lo! 'tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.


Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly-
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Woe!


That motley drama–oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.


But see, amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!–it writhes!–with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.


Out–out are the lights–out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.

Blow, bugle, blow by A. Tennyson

...

Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)

from The Princess

The splendor falls on castle walls

and snowy summits old in story ;

The long light shakes across the lakes,

And the wild cataract leaps in glory.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,

Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying,

dying.

O, hark, O, hear! how thin and clear,

And thinner, clearer, farther going!

O, sweet and far from cliff and scar

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!

Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying,

Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying,

dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky,

They faint on hill or field or river ;

Our echoes roll from soul to soul,

And grow for ever and for ever.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,

And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying,

dying.

******

A boat beneath a sunny sky

...

A boat, beneath a sunny sky

Lingering onward dreamily

In an evening of July --



Children three that nestle near,

Eager eye and willing ear

Pleased a simple tale to hear --



Long has paled that sunny sky:

Echoes fade and memories die:

Autumn frosts have slain July.



Still she haunts me, phantomwise

Alice moving under skies

Never seen by waking eyes.



Children yet, the tale to hear,

Eager eye and willing ear,

Lovingly shall nestle near.



In a Wonderland they lie,

Dreaming as the days go by,

Dreaming as the summers die:



Ever drifting down the stream --

Lingering in the golden gleam --

Life what is it but a dream?



Lewis Carroll